Saving Grace
by piratesmiley
Summary: P/O. "She doesn’t have the imagination to dream this."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is what you've all been waiting for...(not really)...My Zaedah inspired fic! For those of you not in on this conversation (which is all of you), Zaedah's fic Jettatura (GO READ IT) inspired me quite a bit, and so I wrote this. This is part 1/3.

Spoilers: None. Takes place in the future.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

She has a new kind of dream tonight. Tonight, it is just him and her, and they are flawless and _right_, despite the undeniable injury. He sits on a brick partition, low to the ground, and she sits higher, because her subconscious mind knows that he must put her on a pedestal for the way he treats her. _That_ is evident now. Their knees meet in the middle to create a slanted seat of legs. Resting on the bodily chair are their arms, because they are holding hands and staring each other in the face.

And smiling.

Because they're _happy_. They don't smile because they need to paste some sort of expression on their faces, or because they're trying to make jokes out of their joint tragedy, or because they can't let anyone else see how they are breaking.

It's because they are happy. And that's a rare commodity, a privilege for this sliver of time and vast thinning of space.

So surely she _must_ be dreaming.

Only she realizes that can't be true – the breeze surrounding her bare shoulders is just a little too sharp, the feel of his arms and legs is just a little too real, his face is just a little too…_Peter_.

She doesn't have the imagination to dream this.

She thinks of the conversation that got them here, the call where she said the words more efficiently and truthfully than ever before.

_I need you_.

Verbatim, that was it. And his automatic answer was just as coated in meaning and brevity as hers: _I'm coming._

He leans back against the metal bar separating the two of them from open air, pulling her toward him. He smiles a little bit wider.

So he drove over, leaving a sleeping Walter dangerously by himself, and knocked on the door. And she pulled him in, grabbing his hand and rushing him up the stairs. In those few moments, he wasn't really sure what to expect. _Is__ this a booty call?_ She doesn't know how pleased he would have been if it was, but alas he was left unsatisfied. Instead, she pulled him through the doors of her balcony, sat down in a chair, and started to sob. Big, angry, confused tears, like rain from the eyes of fired-hardened gods in the heavens above.

And he held her. He waited it out with her and just let her be, rubbing mindless circles into her back and wiping wetness from her eyes.

"I can't believe you did that."

He could. He _remembered_. But he had to do it. There was no other choice.

"You shouldn't have done it."

Yes, he should have. She's got it all wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This goes backwards from last chapter, explaining a bit. One more, after this. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Fringe.

* * *

The beast was ferocious, ghastly, disturbing, and it had some anger issues, obviously, because when it took a swipe at Olivia, it was mean and dirty and uncalled for. All she wanted to do was get rid of the thing. Why should the beast be so _pissed?_

Olivia was knocked back against the cinderblock wall behind her, all wind gone, and was flinching for the second round when, like a true hero, someone stepped in front of her. And got the wind knocked out of _him_. Turns out Peter wasn't any better equipped to fight a monster than Olivia was. But it did distract the creature away from her, which made Peter happy for the split second he could think before he took another hit.

And another.

And another.

Olivia struggled for her gun; Peter writhed on the floor. Three, four, five shots. Six, seven, the thing was dead, but eight, nine, more and more. Peter struggled to put a hand on her shoulder, she needed to stop. She dropped the gun like it was on fire but she couldn't look at him.

She couldn't get it out fast enough. He was hurt. Because of her. He caught the shame forming on her face, and tried to get up to show her he was fine.

He couldn't exactly do that. But he tried, he disguised his pain, he stumbled up, offering her a hand. She ignored it, getting up by herself. He grasped her shoulders while he swayed, but brushed it off as just wanting to lead her out.

"Let's go," he rasped, pushing her forward, holding on for dear life.

"You need to sit down," she pleaded, pulling her phone out to call for assistance.

"I have to get you home."

"Peter—"

"I have to get you home."

"Peter, you're _bleeding _— Charlie, it's me, we _need help_."

"I have to …" He was dizzy. His concentration was shot with concussion. His hands on her shoulders moved to her waist and down as he crashed to the ground. She shouted his name, catching and cradling his head as he fell.

"Peter! God, Charlie, we need an ambulance! Oh, god …"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay. This is it! Thanks to Zaedah and everyone who reviewed! This takes place directly after chapter one.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

"I had to do it." He said. She shook violently; she cried brokenly, she was beautiful.

He almost loves her. A little bit. He isn't really sure yet.

He had insisted on leaving the hospital immediately after being pumped full of drugs, with enough bandages to highlight the fact that he hurt all over, but no casts, and with his father keeping him up all night as usual, he had no fears about dying in his sleep.

So, that's good. No permanent damage.

Now her tears have subsided, and she's watching him, not sure what she should do. But he's holding her hands in his, and she likes that. She's very glad he's not dead.

What to do, what to do…

She smiles at him.

"You shouldn't have done it." He tries to interrupt. "I like that you tried."

He smoothes his face back into a lazy smile – the kind she likes best on him. But it falls as he looks away. "I had to do it," he whispers.

She grows frustrated in his silence. "What does that mean?"

He isn't sure how to put; he doesn't want to give himself away. "I … _need_ to keep you safe."

"Why?"

And that was it: a damning crossroad; this could go two ways, again – _always a choice_, always.

What now?

Rational. Calm. What were the chances of him screwing this up?

_Oh, _god_._

But she moves on to something else, like she senses that they're just not ready for that yet. "How bad does it hurt?" She looks like she wants him to think that she wants the truth. The con sees right through that — every normal person would say that they wanted truth, but needed, _desired_ a cushion to the blow. And, damn, she needs a king-sized air mattress.

"I've had worse injuries, trust me." There is a grain of truth in that, but talking about his past is messy and dangerous and neither of them need it right now. The expression on her face tells him that that didn't really help, like she's just made his list labeled Personal Injury Log.

He laughs, sans humor, but the smile is true as he leans closer. "Don't worry about it, Liv."

Later, she'd blame in on sleep deprivation, but as her eyes grow distracted on a small cut on his forehead, she grabs his face and scoots nearer. She turns his head this way and that, feeling his skin, his face, his lips in smile, his stubble, his brow, until she leans in and kisses him.

They are happy again. "I like your smile, Peter."

He grins wider.

"I like it more than I should, probably." She gets flustered and looks down, and his smile can't get much bigger, so he captures her lips again.

Okay. _I think I'm ready._


End file.
